


Will you be there to catch me?

by Kyriadamorte



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel Wings, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Demon Wings, Fallen Angel Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fallen Angels, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Minor suicidal ideation, Post-Canon, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), an "It's complicated" relationship with canon mechanics, on all fronts, or to be more specific, variable genitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-03 13:02:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19464556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyriadamorte/pseuds/Kyriadamorte
Summary: It doesn't happen all at once; it sneaks up, seeps into Aziraphale slowly in the months following the Not-pocalypse, which makes it a bit hard to pinpoint which of Aziraphale's many transgressions had been the final straw.ORAziraphale falls.  He handles it as best he can. Crowley handles it infinitely worse.





	1. It doesn't happen all at once

**Author's Note:**

> First fic in this fandom! This plot bunny bit me and wouldn't let go. Apologies for any wild contradictions of book!canon. It's fic, I'm sure you'll get over it eventually.

It doesn't happen all at once.

Aziraphale hadn't really gotten a chance to see most of the proceedings the first (well, up until now _only_ ) time. Of course, he'd fought in the First War - everyone had, no exceptions.But he'd hardly gotten a good _look_ at the opposition. Sure, this was back when he'd still had that flaming sword that no one ever lets him forget about, but - if we're being truly honest - that had been more for aesthetics and intimidation than actual fighting.He'd gotten a few whacks in, but he hadn't really been afforded an opportunity to examine his targets up close. And perhaps, for part of it, he had closed his many eyes so that he didn't see them at all. Who's to say?

Besides, Aziraphale isn't sure if this had been pre-Fall (proper) or post-Fall or perhaps somewhere in the middle. And was it the same for all demons or did the process itself vary as wildly as the end result?

Aziraphale's not sure and has never had a reason to ask Crowley such a particularly rude and invasive question until now.

(And by now it's far too late.)

No, it doesn't happen all at once; it sneaks up, seeps into Aziraphale slowly in the months following the Not-pocalypse, which makes it a bit hard to pinpoint which of Aziraphale's many transgressions had been the final straw.

He's done fairly well on the Big Ten - not that most of them apply to him, anyway. He's only got the one parent (in a sense that is both looser and tighter than how humans tend to use the term) and he certainly honors her well enough. And he hadn't _actually_ ended up killing Adam and, besides, he's sure there have been quite a few angels who have engaged in actual and - if he's being honest with himself, which he might as well be - gleeful murder without falling. So, he's not sure how that part works out with regards to angels, in its particulars.

Then, of course, there are The Seven - which isn't quite how Heaven labels and organizes them, but since Aziraphale doesn't have time to go through the nine hundred and eighty two (or nine hundred and ninety one, depending on how you counted) options and ever-changing subcategories, he decides to stick to The Seven.

**_Gluttony_ **

Aziraphale finds most food absolutely delightful, has done from the beginning. True, it's perhaps gotten a bit more extreme as humans have come up with more and more truly splendid means of food preparation.But, despite the rather unnecessary comments from Gabriel, it wasn't like he ever truly ate to excess.Not more than about once a century, that is, and never at the expense of those who were hungry, which is the important bit that humans always leave out.

**_Vanity_ **

While it's true that Aziraphale has always had a soft and rather peculiar spot for fashion, it can't be that or he'd have been a goner throughout that whole unfortunate French Period for sure. Besides, Gabriel himself had liked the clothes _and_ had said as much.Wherever Aziraphale falls on that particular scale, he's sure that Gabriel falls a considerable bit further. Not that either of them should be comparing, mind you.

**_Greed_ **

Does it count as greed, though, really, when the thing you covet is a book and not money? He supposes it rather does, though. Getting back to the Big Ten, when you can use the word "covet" and have it be applicable, that's never good, regardless of the object.But it's not a _new_ development - Aziraphale has loved writing in all its forms since humanity managed to progress beyond contracts and grocery lists and it's never gotten him in trouble before.

**_Sloth_ **

Aziraphale's not sure if it can entirely be considered sloth if you're merely moving the effort from one plane of existence to another. Sure, he engages in perhaps more miracles than your average angel and, yes, some of them have been deemed by the higher ups as "frivolous" and "unnecessary," but, in Aziraphale's defense, none of them are on Earth nearly as much as he is and aren't fully aware of how dusty and unpredictable and inconvenient it can be.If he had to do everything the human way, he'd have worn his body out years ago.

**_Wrath_ **

Aziraphale doesn't know if he's ever really felt wrath before. Anger, yes. Frustration, absolutely (and both of these at Crowley as often as not). But actual wrath? He's not even sure what that would be like. Even when he'd been on the precipice of murdering an eleven year old boy, it hadn't been _wrath_ that had moved his (well _her_ ) hand; it had been terror.

**_Pride_ **

Pride is actually a fairly good candidate. Pride is stubbornness's classier second cousin and Aziraphale is aware he has the latter in spades. And it probably is a bit prideful, after all, to think you know better than the upper management of Heaven.... But surely it's even _more_ prideful to go ahead with a Great Plan that would cause the death and suffering of billions of people just to win the biggest….yes, he'll just go out and say it… _pissing_ _contest_ of all time without so much as a sign off by the almighty herself?

**_Lust_ **

It's got to be the lust, then, which is ridiculous, because for all that humans seem to hyper fixate on that one, it's probably the one Heaven spends the least amount of resources on (due more than a little bit to the fact that Heaven cannot seem to come to a single, unanimous consensus on what The Rules are for that one. It never really matches up to what the humans think they are, at any rate.)

But, it's the only thing - other than the whole Grand Defiance - that's really changed in recent years (a term that can here mean years, decades, centuries, or even millennia with relative accuracy). Crowley appears to have come to the same conclusion, judging by the excessive self-flagellation going on in Aziraphale's bathroom (double entendre very much not meant in this particular circumstance).

It had happened - the lust, not the falling - a few nights after they'd swapped their bodies back. Not the first night, as one might have suspected; no, they'd both tried their best at going Back to Normal. Well, the _new_ Normal, that is. The better _Normal._ The normal where everything is the same, except they don't have to pretend not to like each other or hide or wait years and years to see each other and then spend all that energy to make it look like an accident. No, with this New Normal, there's a lot more tea and fancy dinners and a lot less Work. And it happens every day now.Four full days of Crowley without any of the problem solving and subterfuge four full days of Crowley would usually entail.

And it's quite good.It's lovely, in fact.And Aziraphale can almost convince himself that it's enough. But…the strange thing about being able to openly admit that he _likes_ Crowley is that it makes it all too easy, all too necessary to admit other things as well.

They're drinking, the night it happens, but they're not _drunk_ , not close. Adam had gotten a bit enthusiastic in his efforts to restore Aziraphale's wine collection and had brought back a few vintages that the angel and the demon had polished off way back in the sixties (the 1960s for the one and the 1760s for the other). Turns out they're just as good the second time around and even more so when you can pair them with fancy cheese and a distinct lack of worry about being caught.

If this were one of Aziraphale's romance novels, there would have been a grand gesture. A declaration, at the very least. And there is, but that comes later. What happens first is mundane, has happened hundreds if not thousands of times in the past. 

Crowley trips. 

You'd think he would be above that sort of thing, what with the ever-moving-miraculously-bendy hips, but no - if anything, the sauntering makes it worse ( _or better_ , Aziraphale thinks with a smile) _._

The rug is the culprit this time (and perhaps the alcohol a bit, but definitely the rug). So, yes, Crowley trips, empty wine glass in hand, and topples headlong into Aziraphale, who'd stood up to refill his own glass.He steadies Crowley with one hand, grasping at his waist.Crowley grabs at Aziraphale's lapels and then does an odd little smoothing motion across his chest.  
  
"Whoops!" he says, smiling widely and popping the p in that strange mannerism of his.

He doesn't let go of Aziraphale's lapel, though. And Aziraphale doesn't let go of Crowley.So they stand there for a bit, touching. The lingering kind - not just the clap on the shoulder or the intentionally-accidental brush of fingertips they more frequently engage in. And then it's not just lingering. Aziraphale's thumb starts mirroring Crowley's fingers and is making small little up and down motions into the hollow of Crowley's slightly-unnaturally-sharp hip bones.

Crowley's own fingers slow, then stop.He seems to be staring quite intently at Aziraphale's broach, but even with his gaze obscured but the sunglasses, Aziraphale can somehow sense that he's not really looking at it, not really seeing it. He sucks in an unnecessary, yet shuddering breath.

"Angel." It's at least half a question.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Angel." A statement - ragged and…defeated? But they're not fighting, not even a little bit.He's leaning in closer now and Aziraphale can feel the puffs of breath along the small bit of neck that's not obscured by shirt and jacket collar.And then Crowley's there, right there, right in front of him, looking at him.He swallows a few times and Aziraphale watches, mesmerized, as his Adam's apple bobs up and down his ridiculously long neck. Crowley opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it again.

Now Aziraphale's sure whatever Crowley has to say is dreadfully important, but the wine warming his cheeks and Crowley's hip beneath his hand and Crowley's face in front of his own and the whole "we're on _our_ side" business has given Aziraphale _ideas_.

"Crowley, darling, I think I'm going to kiss you now, if you don't mind."

Yes, Aziraphale's aware that humans don't normally announce this sort of thing, but since, well, neither of them are humans, it had seemed the polite thing to do.Crowley has stopped in the middle of his fourth attempt at starting a sentence with his mouth wide open. Aziraphale waits a bit, but Crowley shows no intention of answering (or moving) any time this century, so he decides to just give it a go.

Since Crowley's mouth is still open, the approach Aziraphale had initially planned on taking is out.He goes instead for the bottom lip and kisses that. Soft.First one corner, then the other.It's when he decides to try to suck on it - not even that hard, mind you - that Crowley springs back to life.

And then he's _everywhere._

His tongue is licking against Aziraphale's upper lip and his hands are in Aziraphale's hair, at his jaw, his neck. (The wine glasses have been banished to a small village in Ukraine, despite the fact that that had not been where either of them had been intending to send them.)He's pressing forward until he's pushed Aziraphale back onto the little loveseat and taken up residence in his lap.

He's tearing at Aziraphale's tie and, under normal circumstances, he would be worrying about Crowley ripping the fabric.He'd gotten the piece at a lovely shop near Oxford that had, unfortunately, burned down in the 1950s. But Crowley's taking turns biting at Aziraphale's jaw and pressing his forehead against the angel's and breathing out ragged, desperate, " _Please.Please, angel. I can have you, yeah? Please say I can have you like this."_

So, Aziraphale thinks it's quite right and natural that he doesn't care much about fabric, under the circumstances.

"You can, yes," he answers, even though he's not entirely sure Crowley's looking for an answer. Better safe than sorry at this juncture, he figures.

Crowley makes his way to Aziraphale's throat, nipping along his pulse point as he continues to unbutton his shirt. Pop, pop, pop. There really are so many. He's never noticed before.It's not until Crowley gets to the last one that he realizes that maybe he should be doing something.

He brings his other hand to Crowley's waist, grips harder.He should help the demon disrobe - reciprocity seems like the done thing in these situations.He tries, but there are so many limbs and, as ever, Crowley's a hurricane that the angel is powerless to fight against.

"Crowley, darling-"

He doesn't make it to the end of the sentence before Crowley's come to complete, unnatural stillness.

"I'm sorry." A whisper into Aziraphale's collarbone. "I thought-"

"Now, now, none of that, darling." If Crowley starts to spiral, there will be no salvaging it. "It's just that- Well, I don't have much first hand experience in this sort of thing, but I'd still very much like to help out, if that's alright with you. And it's just…well…it's just that-"  
  
"Am I going too fast for you, angel?" He can feel Crowley's smile against his jaw. Good - that's good. He starts pepper small kisses there.Soft, slow, no longer frantic.

"S-something like that."

After that, things go slower, but, ultimately, faster. Clothing gets removed by both parties and they eventually end up in Aziraphale's up until now largely unused bed, after a quick stop on the rug, up against a wall, and bent over a small side table. (The teacup had been an unfortunate, but necessary casualty.)

It's not like Aziraphale feels different, afterwards. Apart from the obvious, that is. Some soreness in his body from muscles moving in directions he hadn't attempted before and a lovely hormonal rush and release that he is looking forward to repeating at the earliest convenience. But nothing that would make anyone suspect _falling,_ of all things.

They repeat these activities daily for about two weeks (well not _exactly_ these activities - they spice things up quite a bit, including some delightful things with ice and scarves…). They even missed a by all accounts spectacular performance of Hamlet to stay in bed and explore their respective bodies and their capabilities, which should give you at least the beginning of an accurate understanding of how much Aziraphale was enjoying himself.

It's not just the orgasms, although those are splendid.It's all the stuff before and after, as well. The way Crowley looks at him with the eyes he rarely lets anyone else see - warm, like caramel, and, somehow, shy and bold all at once.Delightful, incomprehensible creature. And then his fingers - his long, almost talon-like fingers. They're so gentle, not at all what you'd expect from a demon, but precisely what Aziraphale expects from Crowley.Sometimes he thinks Crowley's writing him messages in Enochian along his torso, but he's always too distracted by the sensations the demon elicits to decipher what, if anything, he's trying to say.

And then after… _after_ , Crowley wraps himself around Aziraphale, as close to his other form as Aziraphale's ever seen without _actually_ turning into a snake.It's like he's trying to absorb as much heat from Aziraphale as possible and the angel is only all too happy to provide.

Even when the novelty wears off and they start leaving the house more, they still work sex into the equation at least once a week.And even when they don't have sex, they do quite a lot of cuddling - on the couch, yes, but also a fair amount in bed, even when they don't plan on sleeping.

So, the Lust has been happening for quite a while before the unfortunate revelation. And because - as has been previously stated - _it doesn't happen all at once,_ Aziraphale can't even quite pinpoint when it _starts._ Who knows? Perhaps Falling has an asymptomatic period. Or maybe he'd simply been spending too much of his energy enthusiastically getting used to the _New_ New Normal to notice any of the early signs.

The first thing he _does_ notice is an empty, swooping sensation in his gut. It's a bit like a rollercoaster, which he'd only tried the once. Dreadful things that banged you about and didn't actually take you anywhere and Aziraphale had thought it would be just like flying, but it's not, not at all.

Anyway, the swooping had started in the middle of a play - Shakespeare, yes, but Antony and Cleopatra, not Hamlet. When it happens, he's holding Crowley's hand, which is a development he's found he likes nearly as much as (if not more than) the sex. It's not even one of the sad bits, which is why it stands out.And…it doesn't leave…just sort of…settles. But he'd squeezed Crowley's hand in surprise when it started and Crowley had squeezed back and was still holding Aziraphale's hand afterwards and this really was a fantastic production, so Aziraphale tries not to let it bother him too much.

The next is something like indigestion. Or what Aziraphale imagines indigestion to be. Not something his body has experienced before, but bodies are fickle things, so it doesn't stick out _too_ much.

Then there's an ache between his shoulders that, for all Aziraphale knows, could have been caused by some of their more athletic positions.

Or the burning almost-itch that's not quite in his skin, but simmers, simmers, simmers….

The symptom that's much harder to explain away, that's currently got Crowley going to pieces in a bathroom, is actually quite painless - a little mark at the nape of Aziraphale's neck. It's unfortunate that this form doesn't have nearly as many eyes as some of his others, or else Aziraphale might have noticed sooner and taken steps to cover it up (or at least break the news to Crowley gently).

As it is, Crowley's in the middle of giving Aziraphale what the youths would call "a particularly good rogering" (perhaps not today's youths, but the youths of at least one generation, surely) when he stills abruptly.Aziraphale's on the cusp of what promises to be a truly spectacular orgasm so he pushes back impatiently. Crowley's hands are on him, viselike, harder than they've ever been before, even at his most passionate. It's going to leave a bruise and Aziraphale's about to let the demon know when-

"What. Is that?" Crowley's voice is low, brittle.

"What is what?" asks Aziraphale, petulantly, wriggling back against Crowley (or at least attempting to).

"There's something on your neck.Wasn't there before." He lifts his hand and brushes back Aziraphale's hair to get a better look.He traces whatever it is with a single finger - it tickles a bit - and then he's jerking back, out of Aziraphale in a way that is _incredibly_ uncomfortable and scuttling away to the opposite corner of the bed.

"Crowley, what the-"

"How long?"

"I beg your pardon?"  
  
" _How long, Angel?"_ Crowley snarls. "How long have you known you were Falling?"

"I- _Falling?_ Crowley, don't be ridiculous!"

"You've got a…a…a rat or something on your neck!"

"What- Really?" Aziraphale starts batting at the spot.

"No, not a real one, you idiot!" he says, voice breaking on the last word, which both softens and hardens the blow considerably. "A tattoo or a mark or….You must have seen mine and subconsciously-"  
  
"I haven't subconsciously done anything, thank you very much!"  
  
"If it's subconscious, it's not like you're going to know you're doing it, is there?"

He's all fire and indignation and it's a bit like Before.And then his face crumples and he's crying, which is one of the most truly dreadful sights Aziraphale has ever seen (and he's been alive since The Beginning, so he knows what he's talking about).

"Oh, darling, come here," he says, crawling over and pulling Crowley into his arms. "It's alright."  
  
"No, it's not!" Crowley says through tears, giving a perfunctory attempt to dislodge Aziraphale's arms. "You're falling and it's my fault."  
  
"Now, surely I would have noticed."  
  
Crowley lets out a slightly-hysterical giggle, followed by a "psssshtp," which is just uncalled for.He's not _that_ bad.He doesn't have time to properly form a rebuttal, though, because Crowley is up off the bed and into the bathroom at a speed that is at least a little bit miracle. He slams the door shut in a move that is _entirely_ miracle and then, judging by the noises, starts to get violently ill into the toilet.

So, that's how Aziraphale finds himself in the current situation: locked outside his own bathroom (that he'd only recently brought into existence for the benefit of taking baths with Crowley), trying to work out the specifics of his own dwindling divinity through a locked door with a demon experiencing vomiting for possibly the first time ever.

He's hardly an expert, but from what he can tell, diagnoses tend to work a bit better when both parties are in the same room, but he's sure they'll make do. And, yes, well. Crowley's certainly making some points.About the pain…the…longing.But it's not _that_ bad and wouldn't losing your place at the side of the Almighty be a lot more dramatic and obvious than this? And he's still not sure what he's talking about with that whole "rat" nonsense.

"Sign of a beast," Crowley croaks through the closed door. "Mine's a ss- a snake. By my ear."

"I know, dear; it's lovely."  
  
"S'not lovely!" Crowley protests, although he does sound at least a little bit flattered. "S'a sign of my demonic nature…of my damnation and all that.And now you've got one, too!"

"Well, I haven't seen it, darling, so why don't you open up that door and we can take a good look together?"

There's a full two minutes of silence and then Crowley opens the door, not moving from his temporary residence wrapped around Aziraphale's up until now completely unnecessary toilet. Aziraphale steps in front of the mirror, turns this way, then that (taking only the briefest moment to appreciate the light bruises Crowley has peppered along his neck and torso). But the back of his neck is actually still rather difficult to see.

"Crowley, my dear, do you think you could hold this for me?" he asks, holding out a small hand mirror.He could probably do it himself, but it really is easier with a second person and, besides, Crowley really does need to stop wallowing and get off the floor. He does, eventually, when he realizes that, of the two of them, Aziraphale is not going to be the one to give in first.

Eventually, he sees it.A small brown squiggle of lines, barely darker than his own pale skin.He squints.

"Oh, Crowley, that's not a rat, it's a mouse! Look, it's got a round little body and-"

"Rat, mouse - what bloody difference does it make?"

"Quite a lot, I should think! Mice are small and-"

"You're still damned either way! The rest is just-" he waves his hand in small circles, searching for the right word, "-aesthetics!"

"I think you're overreacting. It's not even that dark."

"You're right," Crowley says, barely more than a whisper, looking into mid-distance in a way that usually means he's coming up with A Plan. "There's still time to fix this."

"Fix? What- How?"

"All this is my fault. So I'll just. Remove myself from the picture. They'll see you're just as good as you were before and it will all go back to normal."  
  
"Crowley, there's really no need to-"  
  
"We're gonna makes this right."

And with that he's brushing past Aziraphale, across the bedroom and then down the stairs, luckily managing to miracle his clothes back onto his body before he reaches the door.

And then Aziraphale is alone.


	2. The Jealous Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thing is, it gets worse before it gets better. Or, to be more accurate, it gets worse before it gets even worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good News - We have finally earned our Explicit rating.
> 
> Bad News - This chapter was a bit too much of a beefy boi and had to be split in two.
> 
> Good News the Second - The final chapter is done and just needs to be edited so that should also be out within the next few days.
> 
> NOTE: Some tags have been added since last chapter - please make a quick check before moving forward.

Going from days of more or less non-stop Crowley to no Crowley at all is a much harder adjustment than Aziraphale had anticipated. In the past, he had gone decades without seeing the demon. Of course, he'd _missed_ Crowley during those years (not that he would have admitted it half the time, mind you), but it was a manageable sort of thing.Something that could be soothed, at least in part, by cake or art or theatre.

But now he's gotten so used to doing all of those things _with_ Crowley. He laughs during Taming of the Shrew, turns to see if Crowley's laughing as well and ask him what he thinks of the actress.But Crowley's not there.And all of a sudden it doesn't matter how much he's enamored with the casting or the costumes or the blocking choices. He leaves before the second act is over.

So, after the first few days, he stops going to plays.He stops going for walks in the gardens. He stops eating at fancy restaurants - stops eating entirely; it is unnecessary, after all. 

Instead, he throws himself wholeheartedly into reading. That at least has been spared from being ruined by lack of Crowley. It's a rather solitary activity even at its most social and, besides, Crowley doesn't really _read._

_(_ Aziraphale carefully avoids all of the books Crowley has acquired for him or saved from mishap. The number is higher than Aziraphale would have initially guessed, which puts him into a state for a whole afternoon.)

So, that helps him pass about two and a half days.

It's not that Aziraphale doesn't understand.Crowley had been exceptionally forthright about his reasoning and motivation, all three sentences of it. And it's not like Crowley doesn't have a point; he is, after all, the expert in these things.

(It doesn't make the whole thing any less lonely.)  
  
So, all he has to do is sit tight and wait for the mark to fade and then things can go back to normal. Not the New New Normal. Maybe not even the New Normal. But they could get back to the Old Normal, surely?

Because he'd tried, earlier, to salvage the shredded tatters of that status quo.About day four of No Crowley, he'd swung by the demon's apartment.The door had been locked and he wasn't answering the buzzer, but that hadn't phased Aziraphale too much because this was entirely what he had expected. What he hadn't expected, after miracling his way through the door, was to find the place completely empty. Some of Crowley's many plants were dry and dying - neglected and abandoned in a way that Aziraphale knew, despite all that melodramatic shouting, are contrary to Crowley's nature under normal circumstances.

He tries not to feel too guilty about it and goes about salvaging as many pots as he can. For Crowley's sake, of course.He'll want them back once this is all sorted out.

The thing is, it gets worse before it gets better. Or, to be more accurate, it gets worse before it gets even worse.

At first, he thinks it's just him missing Crowley. And, to be fair, that might be part of it. But that emptiness, that swooping, that missed-final-step-on-a-staircase feeling keeps gnawing at Aziraphale. Keeps pulling at his insides, leaving him feeling a bit like a deflated balloon.He finds himself horizontal more often than not. On the bed, when he's lucky. Curled up, nearly bent in half on the loveseat far more frequently.And, more often than he's going to ever admit to Crowley, propped up against the the wall with his legs spread akimbo. It's a bit hard to stand, after all, when he feels like he's collapsing in on himself.

Maybe this is why it's called falling.

(It's not. The original Fall (proper) had involved a physical descent of a few hundred light years as well as travel between dimensions in what can loosely be described as a downward fashion. But Aziraphale's not to know that, and the analogy i _s_ apt.)

And what's perhaps worse than the visceral melancholia is his complete inability to _do_ anything about it.Contrary to popular belief, angels aren't always rainbows and sunshine (either physically or metaphorically). They do experience what could be referred to - if we're being somewhat vulgar - as 'mood swings.' So, Aziraphale's been sad and wistful and angry and annoyed and guilty and frustrated and a whole heap of other negative emotions that humans don't quite have a single word for…but there's always been an out. Light at the end of the tunnel, and all that. He'd feel the bad bits, but there'd always been room for something else.

The thing in him now, though, is a jealous beast.

As a being who has historically found joy in the smallest, most ridiculous of God's and man's creations…to listen to the music that he loved, to read (or try to read) his favorite books, to drag his body to the places where humanity's love has always shone the brightest…and feel _nothing_ , well, that's at least as bad as the swooping.

And then there's the burning.Because it definitely is burning, not itching as he'd initially supposed.And by now it's not a fever-burning or a boiling-hot-water-burning or even a burnt-at-the-stake-burning like poor Agnes Nutter.It's Hellfire - actual, literal Hellfire - the kind that would have killed Aziraphale not too long ago.He screams, writhing himself into a sweaty tangle in his sheets, and more than half wishes it would.

When the vomiting happens, Aziraphale realizes (or at least highly suspects) that Crowley must have had experience with the phenomenon before that dreadful ordeal in Aziraphale's bathroom. It's not, in fact, quite as easy as human media makes it seem to a) realize what's going on and b) get to a proper receptacle in time. He ends up making a horrific mess all over his clothes and the middle of his study. When he's done, he reaches out to miracle it away, but there's nothing. No power for him to draw from. The absence is enough to have him get ill another thrice more.

After that, once he's cleaned things the human way (or attempted to, with limited success), Aziraphale decides to admit defeat. It's on about day ten or possibly eighteen of No Crowley when Aziraphale decides to take face the music, as it were. The music here being a somber dirge with lyrics that spelled out in no uncertain terms that the lack of Crowley was having absolutely no positive effect on his…decline in divinity.

It's not Aziraphale purging the poison, as he'd hoped up until approximately day seven, but rather the poison purging him.

So, he strips naked (the clothes were a lost cause), bundles himself in his large, empty bed, and waits for the end.The end of his angelic nature or the end of his life, he's not quite sure.There's no reason to think it's going to be the latter, but he tries not to give up hope.

Aziraphale had initially miracled just the one comforter and some sheets when he'd first brought the bed into existence. But he'd seen a rather lovely handmade quilt four days later that he'd just had to have. Well, two, actually. And then he and Crowley had been wandering a car boot sale and the demon had gotten rather preoccupied with and incredibly fuzzy blanket that wasn't going to be sold anyway. So, really, it was at least partially altruism that had motivated Aziraphale to buy the thing. The way Crowley had sprawled out and luxuriated in the sensation of that three quid purchase had just been a bonus, really.

Between all of those and the crocheted throw that had migrated from the couch to the bed, Aziraphale was hardly hurting on bedding. Unfortunately, that's not enough to stop his teeth from chattering or his limbs from seizing up and shivering.

He's not sure how long he's been in bed when the flames turn to ice. He hadn't been expecting it; Hellfire does get a lot more press than whatever this is, but - from where Aziraphale's standing (or lying, as it were) - they're equally unpleasant. By unpleasant he, of course, means excruciatingly painful and soul-crushing. He could put some clothes on, but that would involve leaving the bed, which is completely out of the question. Instead, he just curls in on himself tighter and tighter, wrapping himself into a burrito of blankets.

And then promptly kicking them off in wild, frantic motions when the flames return.

They cycle through, back and forth, waiting for Aziraphale to become accustomed to the one before reverting to the other. But it's not the worst part.

No, the worst part are the visions, the voices.They're familiar, at first, reruns.

_"You've been a bit of a fallen angel, haven't you?"_

_"We can run away together."_

_"You pathetic excuse for an angel!"  
  
"Well, that's more the kind of thing you'd expect my lot to do."  
  
"Shut your stupid mouth and die already!"  
  
"We're on _our _side!"_

And then they go off script.Whispering then shouting about how he's an imposter, a useless excuse for an angel. And then all the victim's of Heaven and Hell screaming in front of them. They're all _so loud._

And then…Crowley.He knows it's not really him at least some of the time. Crowley would never be that cruel. But then, sometimes, it's Crowley, angry. Crowley in pain. Crowley, rightfully, blaming his pain on Aziraphale. Easily the worst of all of them.

_"Oh, angel,"_ says the not-Crowley.

"There's no reason to rub it in," he answers, muffled by the pillow he's half-trying to suffocate himself with.

_"You're right, sorry."_ Odd. The not-Crowleys had never apologized before - more the reverse, demanding apologies from Aziraphale.

He's not in the mood for mind games.

"Can you hurry it up, please? I'm quite busy. Lots of nothing to throw up and sweat to shed and dignity to lose."

"Oh, ang- _Aziraphale_ …I should never have…turn over, please?"  
  
This is…isn't…he can't…what?

"Please. Please, I can't," Aziraphale says, and it's a good thing that this is all in his head because he's crying and Crowley shouldn't see-

"You can, angel," says Crowley's voice, broken, crying - by far the most painful thing his mind has conjured. "Come on, please? For me?"

And then there are hands on his shoulders and a tear dripping onto his cheek and he's forcing himself to turn and look out of pure curiosity.

Oh, this one's very good.He's still wearing the glasses, for one; the others have been barefaced, letting Aziraphale see Crowley's eyes (which he adores) glaring at Aziraphale, hating him - a masterpiece of torture, though he's no expert (yet).But the glasses are much more realistic. And he can still see that this Crowley's been crying what with the red puffiness and the broken blood vessels and the way his face is a bit crumpled in.

_"_ Ang- Aziraphale, you look awful," he says, which is a bit rude, but then he's wiping the sweat off Aziraphale's brow and cupping his cheek and even if it's all in his head, it feels lovely, so he lets himself nuzzle into not-Crowley's hand. He knows it won't last and maybe this will just make it worse when it turns, when it leaves, but he'll have a minute or so when it's _better_ and he's not in a position to resist that.

"Just let me pretend - just for a little while," he's begging, he knows, but he lost his dignity along with his pants and if it's all in his head, what difference does it make?

"Pretend? Wha' Oh, angel, _no,"_ and then he's cupping Aziraphale's face with both hands and - _oh -_ that does feel very…solid. "Angel, it's me. I'm here. I came back. I shouldn't have left. I shouldn't'a-"

Aziraphale manages to lift his arm out and touch the cheek in front of him and, yes, it does feel _very_ real. A bit more greasy than his mind would have conjured up.

"Crowley?" His voice sounds atrocious. He clears his throat and tries again. "My dear, is that really you?"  
  
"Yeah," he says. He's crying and smiling at the same time and, goodness, he really is beautiful. "Yeah, it's me. I came back."

And then he's breaking, crumbling. "I'm so _sorry._ "

His face is a mess and then it's gone, buried in the crook of Aziraphale's neck. There are big, shuddering sobs wracking his body and Aziraphale probably looks horrible and smells worse, but he can't pretend he's not delighted by these developments.

"Shhhh, darling, it's alright." He's lost some motor function, but he can still mange to make some soft, soothing motions up and down Crowley's back.  
  
_"S'not!"_

"You're here now, though…so it has to be." It's soppy, but Aziraphale knows it to be true.

"Shouldn't'a left. Shouldn't'a kissed you in the first place. S'all my f-"

"Shh, that's enough." Aziraphale says and Crowley stills and silences instantly. "Just…just stay with me. Just stay. Just like this."

The tension eases out of Crowley's body and he collapses onto Aziraphale in a remarkably good impression of an octopus. There's still some crying, but it's quieter now. The pressure is lovely. The presence of Crowley is even lovelier.

When Crowley's calmed himself and Aziraphale has finished quieting the last bits of doubt that Crowley's really here, he moves to break the silence that's settling, heavy, between them.

"Where did you go?"

It's not an accusation, but Crowley flinches like it is one. "America, for a bit. Plausible accountability and all that. Then I popped around. France. Australia. Siberia. Canada."  
  
Aziraphale pulls Crowley closer. "Sounds dreadful."

Crowley doesn't rise to the bait, just hugs him tighter. "I was just coming in to check on you. T'see how much longer I needed to stay away.Mrs. Ferris said you hadn't left the shop in weeks. So, I looked in downstairs and…and…and I could still smell your sick and the rot and-"

"Sorry." He knows Crowley's seen worse, but it's still embarrassing.   
  
" _Don't._ " Crowley grits out. "Don't apologize." A breath, calmer. "Please."

It's quiet again; then it's Crowley breaking the silence. "I'm the one who should be sorry. I should never have left you. Not when I knew what…not when I _knew._ "

"You thought you were doing the right thing," Aziraphale says into Crowley's collarbone. His eyes drift close as he braces himself to be flayed once again by piercing cold.

Crowley seems to sense what's happening and pulls him closer. It's not much warmer, but he does feel a bit better. "Maybe. But I was also being a coward, selfish. I should have either let you be from the beginning, angel, or stayed to watch the…or stayed."

"Not an angel," Aziraphale reminds. It's supposed to come out light-hearted, but it falls a just a bit short.

"I know," says Crowley, so soft he can barely hear it. "S'not really just a literal description though. You're still _my_ angel."

Aziraphale takes in a shuddering breath, heart full for the first time in days, then echoes, "I know."

They don't fight the quiet after that.

At some point - he's not quite sure when - Aziraphale falls asleep for the first time. Ever. He understands, now, why Crowley's so fond of the activity (or lack of activity). The absence of pain and thinking and effort is absolutely incomparable. He's sure dreams complicate the whole experience, but - on the whole - definitely something he'll be working into rotation.

When he wakes, Crowley's looking down on him. The glasses are gone and his eyes are a weird soup of guilt and anxiety and adoration. It hurts to look at, a bit.He can feel Crowley tensing up, notices his jaw clenching in a way that means he's trying to put a sentence together. Aziraphale decides to let him off the hook.

"Was it like this for you?"

Maybe "letting him off the hook" was a bit of an overstatement.  
  
Crowley, however, bears the interrogation with more grace than Aziraphale would have anticipated.

"A bit, yeah. Time was different then. Squishier. Hard to tell if it was faster or slower."

Aziraphale nods. He does remember that much, after all. "And it was happening in Hell with a bunch of other miserable sods."  
  
"So," Aziraphale says, trying to pulling himself at least a bit out of the pool of self pity he's taken up residence in these past few weeks, "worse than this, then?"

"No," Crowley says harshly, a sharp contrast to the soft way he's stroking Aziraphale's hair. "We're not going to do this. Doesn't matter which was worse; you're hurting _now._ "

That means yes, but Aziraphale doesn't push it.

"It won't always been this bad," Crowley says, relaxing in a way Aziraphale's sure is at least a little bit forced."You'll be able to feel good things again."

"Hmmm," Aziraphale hums back, but what he means to say is a mix between _I know; it's already better now that you're here,_ and _I'm never going to be like I was before, though. (I'm broken.)_ Luckily, he has enough awareness of both himself and Crowley to not say either.

Over the next few days, Crowley seems to be making up for lost time and distance by overcompensating and doing his best impression of a leech. Or a mollusk. More well meaning and less slime, but equally clingy. And while cuddling with Crowley in between naps is lovely, life-saving, even, it is getting to be a bit…much.

"My dear boy, could I bother you for a glass of water?" He doesn't actually need it, but it couldn't hurt. And giving Crowley something seemingly productive to do is becoming mission critical.

Crowley hops up and scampers off. His legs are a little bit wobbly from days without use, but he steadies himself eventually before making his way down the stairs with far less saunter than he normally engages in.

Aziraphale realizes too late that a drawback of getting Crowley up and out of his bed would be that Crowley would be gone and out of his bed. He knows, intellectually, that he's just downstairs make a completely unnecessary mess of things in his search for The Proper Cup. But what if he's not? What if he never comes back? What if Aziraphale's been hallucinating him the whole time?

The fire's back again; it's starting underneath his fingernails, spreading up, up and focusing into a thousand knives between his shoulders.He kicks off the covers again, arching and twisting his spine to alleviate some of the pain. Nothing's working and it hurts; it _hurts._

"I brought your wa- Oh, _angel-_ " Crowley says from the doorway.

And then, within a breath, he's at Aziraphale's bedside. "Here, take this."

He shoves the cup of water in Aziraphale's face. He still doesn't _actually_ need it and he's in a rather lot of pain, but he grits his teeth and sucks in a few drops. It's only polite; he had sent poor Crowley to get it, after all - wouldn't be right to reject his help. And Crowley does so _want_ to help.

"Darling, I- _ah!"_ Aziraphale hisses in as another wave of pain wracks his body. "My…my back it…it hurts. Could you- Would it be too much bother to-"  
  
"Oh, right," Crowley says, sitting back down on the bed and already starting to manhandle Aziraphale a bit to lie on his stomach. "Forgot about this part."

"Forgot?"

"Yeah, s'your wings angel. S'not gonna be pretty. Well, knowing you, they'll probably still end up beautiful, afterwards.But the process is going to hurt like…well, like Hell."

Aziraphale doesn't doubt that.

"I've got an idea, though. Go on, take 'em out."  
  
"I beg your pardon!"

"Your wings, angel."  
  
"I am aware of what you were asking, Crowley!"

"Well, go on then. Out y'pop," he rubs his hand up and down Aziraphale's spine.

It's not like Crowley hasn't seem them before. Their first few (dozen, possibly hundred) meetings had been with wings out. Aziraphale still remembers sheltering the demon from the rain all those millennia ago.

(He really should have picked up on the whole "in love" business a bit sooner, but what can you do.)

But after the first few centuries, when humanity's numbers had grown and overt displays of the divine and the occult were no longer the Done Thing, wings stopped being something you bandied about except for on Special Occasions.And Special Occasions grew rare and rarer, until Azirphale basically stopped using his wings entirely. It's not like he's _embarrassed_ about them. But they're his, _him_ , in a way that even this body isn't. It's a rental - a multi-millennia old, seasoned rental, but a rental all the same. So, even though Crowley's been _inside him_ (on a number of levels), the idea of showing Crowley his wings leaves him feeling…naked.

He hesitates. But then white-hot-blue-cold pain shoots up his spine and it's a lot harder to care about that sort of thing.

He stretches, flexes, reaches out to that nearby plane where he keeps them tucked away, and _pulls_.It's harder than he remembers it being. Perhaps it's the disuse or his weakened condition. (He doesn't let himself consider any other possibilities.)

He unfolds them gingerly and, from what he can see, they're in a dreadful state - rumpled, patchy, and the color's all over the place. From the way he takes a hissing breath in through his teeth, Crowley agrees.

"They're horrible, aren't they?" Aziraphale says, dejected. And, yes, there's definitely some vanity behind that; so _what_?

"I've seen worse," Crowley says off-handedly in a way that Aziraphale now knows is at least two-third affectation.

He leans in to Aziraphale's ear, kisses it, then, ever so gingerly kisses the spot on Aziraphale's neck that had started this whole fiasco. "Now hold still, angel. I'm going to take care of you, yeah?"

Crowley starts picking at them - a pluck here, a sharp yank there. It pinches, but, afterwards, there's relief. A small pile of dirtied, scraggly white feathers starts to form on the floor. There's still pain, but it's subsiding; and, as Crowley starts running his fingers through the remaining feathers, tension slowly starts to flow out of Aziraphale's body.

The small respite and the fact that he doesn't have to look Crowley in the face loosens his tongue. "Crowley, I….I don't want this. I like helping people. I don't want to have to…I don't want…"

He flounders, trying to force his half-functioning brain to strip together a sentence that's not going to inadvertently offend the demon (the _other_ demon, the traitorous thing whispers at him).

"If it makes you feel any better, I'm sure you're going to be an absolutely rubbish at it."

"You really think so?"

"Mmmhmmm," the demon hums, untangling a particularly painful bit near the metacarpus. "Except the tempting. You've been tempting me for six thousand years; humanity won't know what hit it."  
  
Aziraphale equal parts flattered and dismayed. He turns around slightly to peer at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. "Six thou- Really, Crowley? That long?"

Crowley smirks and Aziraphale is so happy that he's finally back to somewhat resembling himself that he overlooks the leering. Crowley leans down to kiss his lips and it's soft, but there's the tiniest bit of tongue and-

_Oh._ Well, that's odd.That's…well, that's certainly something.

It's…it's delicious. Crowley _wants_ him.

He's covered in stale sweat and he's certainly not in his prime and his wings are in a right state, despite Crowley's care and…Crowley still _wants_ him.

And then Azirphale is kissing Crowley back _hard_ , chasing that, delighting as it sparks and flames beneath his hands, _within_ Crowley. For once, it's Crowley who's scrambling to keep up, who's following _Aziraphale's_ lead.

"Angel, wot- Aziraphale, I- Aziraphale, _slow down!"_

But he can't. Because he can finally feel something that's not his own.He's _finally_ connecting to something outside of himself and he can't let that go, he can't, he can't he can't-

"Please, Crowley! Please don't take this…I can feel you. Please, just let me…I need-"

Crowley's frozen for a moment. A shadow passes over his face, something sad and wistful. And then it's gone, replaced with something more determined, something with heat.

"Yeah, sweetheart," Crowley murmurs against his lips. "Yeah, I know what you need."

Aziraphale's already naked so he focuses all of his energy getting Crowley to the same state. He pulls, rips at the fabric, clumsy and desperate."Sorry," he mumbles as he hears the shirt tearing.

"Don't be," Crowley responds, vanishing the offending garment from existence before sitting himself in Aziraphale's lap.

He's chosen a vulva today and the heat of him against Aziraphale's thigh combined with the heady, tangible taste of Lust has Aziraphale's eyes rolling. After days and days of feeling nothing, nothing but pain, it's almost too much.He runs his hands up Crowley's thighs and marvels where the skin shifts to scales and back.He wonders, absently, if he's going to start sprouting fur as part of this whole affair. He wouldn't like that at all, he thinks - his body's already got more or less the standard amount of vestigial fur and he's not sure he wants to add to that.

Sorrow and Loss threaten too well up in him again, so Aziraphale returns to the task at hand. He sucks at Crowley's neck and it's harder than he ever have and there's teeth and blood and he can feel Crowley's pain and it feels _good_ , but is that him or Crowley or-

And then he doesn't quite care because Crowley's grabbing his cock and sliding on top of him and oh, oh, _oh!_

Crowley's hot all around him, but cool beneath his fingers and Aziraphale will never have enough, _never_. He wraps Crowley's legs around his waist and there's a one, two, _whoosh_ from his battered wings and he's got the demon pinned to the wall. Crowley's vertical pupils have gone wide and his mouth is hanging open slightly.  
  
"D-do you want me to stop?" Because he will.It will flay him alive, but he will. This isn't the Aziraphale Crowley had signed up for; he'd be well within his rights to change his mind.

Crowley squeezes his legs tighter around Aziraphale. " _Never."_

Good. Well, that's good. Best get back to it, then. 

He snaps his hips forward and Crowley's Lust shoots through him. Or maybe it's his own. Or maybe it's _theirs_. It's difficult to tell.He moves harder and harder against Crowley, into Crowley, and he stops trying to figure it out.

"Yesssss, like that," Crowley says, breathless against his lips. "Just like that; s'alright, I gotch'u, angel." And then, in between much sloppier kisses than Aziraphale had ever engaged in before, "I love you."   
  
And Aziraphale knows that. Has done, for a long time. Well, not as long as he should have. Not over six millennia. But, in his defense, occult beings don't really feel quite the same way humans do. So, yes, he'd felt _something_ , but it had been muted and distorted - a song playing underwater (and possibly at half speed).

Once he'd worked it out, though, it had been clear as day.

(Well, once he'd worked it out and let himself admit it, which took quite a while after the initial realization.)

And it had been…comforting. Not just comforting in that way that all Love had been comforting. Comforting because it was Crowley. Comforting because it was Crowley loving _him_ , even with no promise or knowledge that it would ever be returned. Comforting because it was there even when Aziraphale felt like he least deserved it.

He can't feel it now.

" _Again,"_ he gasps, greedy, pathetic creature that he is. "Please - say it again."

How do humans survive like this, not Knowing? To have to rely on clumsy things like words and trust? How had Crowley survived this?

(He's always been the braver of the two.)

"I love you, angel," he gasps as Aziraphale angles his hips to hit him right _there._ "I love you. I love you."

He can't feel it, but he can feel how much Crowley wants him and he trusts Crowley, he does. It's just that- "I'm not though. Not anymore. Are you sure you-"  
  
"Yesss," Crowley says, scratching at the place between Azirphale's wings. And then, to make sure Aziraphale knows it's not just because he'd moved one of his hands to circle Crowley's clit. "Loved you in the garden. Loved you at the flood. Loved you in Rome - _ah-_ and France - _fuck-_ and Russia - _please-_ and India. Loved you all the way to the end of w- _world._ "  
  
" _Crowley!"_ He's tearing Aziraphale apart, ripping him at the seams. And then, because he's greedy and because he knows Crowley will give it to him, "Your wings, darling, please, let me see. Let me see all of you. Let me have all of you, _please._ "

It's dreadfully undignified and intrusive, but Crowley doesn't seem to care. He arches his back and unfurls them in one shimmering shiver. Inky black and bold and just as beautiful as when he'd first seen them six thousand years ago. He leans in closer and lets his wings brush up against Crowley's. "Yes, angel, I'm _yours,_ all of me, _always._ Yes, angel, please, there. You're mine, my angel, yes, I'm so close, _fuck-"_

And then Crowley's shuddering around him in a startling, brilliant flash of _want, want, want_.

And then it's quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have taken multiple questionably legitimate artistic licenses with how wings work in this 'verse. Hopefully everyone is okay with that because I have absolutely no intention to change it.
> 
> ALSO - I am absolutely blown away by the response this fic has gotten so far. Thank you to everyone who's taken the time to leave a kudos or nice comment; I really do treasure them!


	3. A hurricane. An absolute hurricane.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley looks…skittish. And worried. And guilty. And a bit like he thinks Aziraphale's going to break. Which is ridiculous, considering the dynamics of their latest…engagement.

The peace doesn't last forever because of course it doesn't - that would be a bit beside the point, wouldn't it? But Aziraphale rides it as long as it will carrying him, sitting in his new location on the floor. He and Crowley are still wrapped around each other - arms and legs and wings. Crowley pulls back gently as they both continue to take in deep, heaving breaths they don't really need.

Crowley looks…skittish. And worried. And guilty. And a bit like he thinks Aziraphale's going to break. Which is ridiculous, considering the dynamics of their latest…engagement.

"Are you…alright?"

"Of course, my dear. Thank you for-" holding me, cleaning my wings, showing me yours, letting me fuck you silly "-all of your help."

Crowley hums something non-committal, but is still looking at Aziraphale askance, obviously not entirely placated.

"I love you, too." Aziraphale says, abruptly, multiple minutes later than he probably should have. "I don't say it nearly enough, do I? Never have."

"S'fine."  
  
"It's not. I should have realized before that you…that I…" He gives the end of that sentence up as a lost cause. "I should have _realized_."

Crowley smiles at that - sad, but fond. "You can make up for it now, then. Serenade me with sonnets and all that. Or perhaps a mix-tape. Are those still a thing?"

_"Crowley!"_ Aziraphale scolds, pushing at his shoulder. He falls off of Aziraphale's lap in a giggling, flapping heap. "You needn't mock me!"

"Needn't I?" And Aziraphale can't be too mad because Crowley's still smiling and it's reaching his eyes now. He wriggles up against the wall until he's in a standing position and then reaches out his hand, "You feeling better?"

"Quite." Aziraphale answers, giving what he hopes is comforting and winning smile.

He still hurts and that gaping chasm of emptiness hasn't really closed up at all, but he _is_ functional and he wants to seem properly appreciative of Crowley's notable contributions to his well-being. He takes the proffered hand and stands up.He wobbles a bit, which does rather undermine _his_ efforts to support _Crowley's_ efforts to support _him_. But Crowley just gives him a furrowed brow and an arm around his waist, so it's hardly a disaster.

He steers Aziraphale towards the bathroom and into the tub. He appreciates it - both the assistance in bathing the fact that Crowley never actually explicitly brings up how rancid Aziraphale must smell. 

While they wait for the tub to fill, Aziraphale examines his wings in the mirror. The shape is more or less the same, thinner from where Crowley had groomed him, but the color's changed. There's still quite a lot of white left, although most of that has gone dingy and faded, but the primary color is now grey. Poetic, probably.

Crowley comes up behind him, cautious while trying to appear nonchalant, which just makes it all the more obvious. He starts chewing at Aziraphale's ear. "Silver. Shiny, flashy. I like it."

He supposes one could call it silver, if they were being generous (as Crowley almost always is, although he'll never admit it). He does miss the white, but the grey's fine. And Crowley seems to like them quite a lot, which takes at least half of the sting out of it.

He flutters them out of the physical plane, though, before getting into the tub. He'd created something large and extravagant to soak in (to have sex in) when he'd brought this room into existence, but even that was not quite big enough to comfortably fit him and his wings without contorting his body awkwardly, which he doesn't really have the energy to do right now.Crowley follows suit, grabs a seat, and begins bathing Aziraphale thoroughly, but gently.

It's an interesting sensation. They've bathed together before, of course, but it's always been as a prelude (or an epilogue…or an interlude) to sex. That was the whole reason for the room's creation, after all. And, of course, it _could_ go that way now. He can feel the hum of Crowley's lust beginning to call to him and he's sure the demon can feel his in return and all it would take from either of them would be just a small _pull-_

But he doesn't. And Crowley doesn't. And they don't. He just sits there, leaning in to the comfort of a warm baby blue washcloth and honeysuckle soap. And it's enough.

It's still enough.

"I'm not changing my name," he says as he lets his eyes flutter closed. "I know it's the done thing for the most part, but I've been Aziraphale for far too long; I just don't think it will feel right and everyone already knows me as-"  
  
"Good."

He doesn't bring it up again.

~

The next day (or perhaps after two or three days - Crowley doesn't really tell him how long he lets him sleep), Aziraphale feels well enough to wander the house. The first thing he sees is that his attempts to save Crowley's plants has been an unmitigated disaster.

He flutters about, dowsing them with water, as if they haven't dried up completely over a week ago. "Oh, my dear boy, I'm so sorry! I really had thought it would be for the best. You were gone and I just thought that I could watch over them for you. I didn't realize-"

"Oh, bugger the bloody plants!" Crowley snaps, sinking back into a sulk. "Their own damn fault they couldn't handle being on their own. Pathetic, really."

Aziraphale can hear the guilt, though, although he's having a hard time working out if it's for him or the plants or all of it.

He lets Aziraphale buy him some new ones that afternoon, though, with minimal fuss. Well, with the standard amount of fuss, that is. He double, triple, and quadruple checks that Aziraphale's ready to leave the house, makes snide comments about every plant Aziraphale chooses, and harangues him for cooing at the plants as he boxes them up into the Bentley.

But even as he's scolding Aziraphale for "spoiling" his new plants and giving them mixed messages and turning them soft, Aziraphale can see the tension easing from Crowley's shoulders the more he himself flits about.

See, he'd _known_ Crowley had cared about the plants.

(It's not about the plants.)

~

The end is easier and not just because Crowley's there (although that certainly does help things). They leave the house more and Aziraphale only has a melt down once -well, twice, but he gets it under control in the back alleyway before dessert arrives, so it really shouldn't count.

And the pain's mostly manageable by now. Oh, it still _hurts_ , but that's not all he is anymore. And his body seems to have settled on a single internal temperature. Not the one he'd had before and not one he would have chosen for himself, but it is stable.

The loss of divinity is still rather discombobulating and the rise in his occult powers doesn't actually help the matter like he'd thought it might. Humans and their emotions are so _loud._ He's known this, but just because he's grown accustomed to filtering out a certain flavor of white noise over the past six thousand years doesn't mean he's even remotely well equipped to do the same with an entirely different genre.

The red eyes come sometime towards the end. Aziraphale stares at them for a good thirty minutes in the mirror the morning he discovers them. He comes out eventually and sits across the table from Crowley, who's made them a rather expansive and delicious breakfast. He pointedly doesn't look away when Crowley catches his eye while passing the bacon. Crowley pointedly doesn't say anything in return. Their following conversation is louder in what they don't say then in what they do.

In contrast to everything else, it's so last minute, so minor, so inconsequential. He refuses to let himself get worked up about it.

(That evening, before Crowley slithers into bed, he has a good long cry about it. Crowley doesn't say anything, just wipes away the tears with his thumbs before kissing his eyelids. In moments like these, he can almost still feel an echo of Love.)

He's handling it. They're handling it.

But they keep waiting for the other metaphorical shoe to drop. Because it will, of course - from above or below, _that_ still remains to be seen. But, after all, somebody _has_ to have known about this, right?

But one month goes by and then another. Nothing. Radio silence, as it were. And then…they start to realize…that, since their bit of body-swapping, _nobody_ has made the slightest effort at contact with either Aziraphale or Crowley. Nothing. Not a peep. Not a single, solitary assignment. Of course, both of them had gone about doing minor acts here and there, but that had mostly been upkeep, no actual orders, nothing explicit. Heaven and Hell were neglectful to begin with and, after Armaggedidn't, seem to have exited the picture entirely.

Neither Aziraphael nor Crowley make any effort to reach out and clarify the situation, however. No reason to shake those particular rat and explosive-filled boats.

It's when they're coming up on a full year since The Mouse Incident that Aziraphale puts forth the idea that perhaps Heaven wasn't actually behind his Fall.

"Don't be silly, angel," Crowley scoffs. "Of course it's Heaven. How else are you gonna kick someone out of your super secret club? Gotta be in the club to begin with, don't'cha?"

"But what if it's not the club members, but the club president, as it were?" He's not sure he wants to stick with this particular metaphor, but apparently that train has already left the station.

"The Almighty? Y'really think she _personally_ gave you the boot?"  
  
Crowley isn't lounging anymore, but peering at him intently from behind his sunglasses, brows furrowed.

"So, what if it's not the Lust, after all?" He tries not to notice the way Crowley still flinches at that. "What if it's, you know…part of The Plan?"

Crowley throws his teacup against the wall where it shatters and leaves a stain that no amount of miracling will ever fully get out.

" _Crowley!"_

"Fuck. That!" the demon in question grits out through clenched teeth. "If she's doing this for some plan, the least she can do is tell you _what_. Give you some kind of hint! Some kind of…. _comfort!_ You don't just hurt people for no reason without any guidance or…or…"

Aziraphale feels like he should be protesting, making some sort of defense, as it were. Or maybe he should be agreeing with Crowley. He's not really sure these days.

"And if she's not, if it's just for the Lust then…then _fuck that, too!"_

He's up and pacing now. Aziraphale makes no move to stop him.

"Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, and all the rest of that sanctimonious lot wanted to throw humanity to the wolves or…hell hounds or what have you and, sure, that's _fine_ , grand, no problem! But you get off a few times with me and suddenly _that's_ worth getting off her arse and directly interfering with. Nevermind that I love you and you love me and everyone - your side, my side, their side, our side, everybody who's worth anything's bloody side usually agrees that's generally Good. It's fucked, it's all _fucked_ , because you know what, letting me fall was one thing, that's fine, but letting you fall, hurting _you_ is _obscene_."

A hurricane. An absolute hurricane.

"It's not."

"It _isss!"_ Crowley snaps, his voice slipping into something snake-like at the end. "How can you _still_ be defending-"  
  
"I mean, it's not fine that she let you fall."

Crowley's frenzied pacing stops. He's motionless, a statue. Aziraphale reaches out, hooks his finger into Crowley's belt loop, and pulls him into his lap. Crowley lets himself be pulled, a puppet with his strings cut, none of his usual saunter or seduction.His eyebrows are migrating toward his hairline and his face has slipped into something open and guileless. "Y'what?"

"You're a good person, Crowley. You always have been. What happened to you wasn't fair, either."

They don't talk much for the rest of that evening. Not with words.

~

So, maybe it is the Lust. Or maybe it's The Plan.

Or maybe…it's the _Doubt_.

Aziraphale spends a little under two years trying to figure it out before giving it up as a lost cause. Doesn't really matter, does it?

Crowley doesn't give it up _ever._ Ears to the ground, eyes and feelers and sticky fingers poking about everywhere.He even opens up some books on the subject. As long he doesn't spiral out of control, doesn't lose himself too far down that particularly depressing rabbit hole, Aziraphale pretends not to notice.

They both figure they've got a few good decades and maybe even a few good centuries before either Heaven or Hell come to check up on them. No use wasting any of that time worrying about something bad happening.

Crowley insists on incorporating wrestling and sparring into their activities.  
  
"This is completely unnecessary, Crowley, and so _sweaty!_ " Aziraphale protests when he first brings it up.

"Yep," Crowley says, popping the p before pouncing on Aziraphale, pinning him to the ground with a smirk. "We could do it naked if y'like."

He refuses to be charmed by those ridiculous wiggling eyebrows. He absolutely refuses.

He eventually gives in and it's not because sometimes they fight naked (it is, a bit) or because he thinks they'll actually _need_ it (he does, though), but because it's one of the few things that actually helps Crowley sleep without nightmares.

So, they slip into this New New New Normal.

At first, it fits better on Aziraphale than Crowley, but he gets there, eventually. Mostly. With only the most minimal twitching and fussing.

And sometimes they do good things. And sometimes they do bad things. And, perhaps most frequently of all, they do rather in-between, somewhat self-indulgent things.

Which means, from a certain point of view, not much has changed, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's done! Thank you so much for the warm reception you've given me into this new fandom. Really appreciate all of the people who have taken time to comment and kudos <3


End file.
